


The Coup

by louis_quatorze



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-12
Updated: 2010-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:32:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louis_quatorze/pseuds/louis_quatorze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lucien came to Berlin, he wasn't expecting this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coup

Michael Preetz had never been a great player, but at times he was a very good one. He was loyal, hardworking, and most of all, he had longevity. He played until he was 36. A respectable length of time for any striker. He had been solid and respectable and retired, well-loved, in front of a crowd that cheered for the years he'd put in.

Lucien had been great; elegant and creative, but not lucky. A foot to his knee had seen off whatever luck he'd had. He'd been stubborn and pushed past his limits, come back and played a few more years, but he knew there was something he'd been missing since Chapuisat clattered into him. He retired quietly with the sense that he'd never finished what he started.

He supposes he should have resented Michael, when Michael comes to meet him in Zürich, at the airport. He often resents ex-players, particularly ones like Michael had been, who'd stretched what they did have out as much as possible. But it is impossible to dislike Michael.

"I am happy to finally meet you," he says, in French, his accent rough and appealing. "It is a pleasure."

"Thank you." Lucien smiles, shaking the offered hand. "It is lovely to finally be going, I've heard many good things about Berlin, it's supposed to be a lovely city."

"Ah." Michael looks slightly sheepish. "I have used all of my French." He shrugs, apologetically.

"I have been working on my German."

"Fantastic." He claps his hands together, smiles that blinding grin. "Then we can talk."

* * * * *

Lucien isn't sure if he believes in fate or not. It's a position that he changes regularly, depending on his mood. Chapuisat was either unlucky or meant to be, depending on how his day was going.

His nationality, also, was a subject of his thoughts. If he'd been Spanish, like Rafael, he somehow doubted he'd been at a club like Hertha Berlin at 51. Even Italian, French, Dutch, those lands with long traditions and big names. Doing everything possible in Switzerland was enough to get him this. A big stadium, a big city, a sulking, underperforming squad, an indifferent population, impossibly managed funds. He enjoyed challenges, but life and careers were too short for messing around.

He goes to his office, picks up his phone. France, maybe. There had to still be options in France.

"I know. It's a mess here." The soft, rueful voice causes Lucien to turn. "Perhaps you should have been warned."

"Perhaps?" Lucien snorted, rubbing his temple. "Michael, this is-"

"I know." Michael held up his hands. "This is not what you left Zürich for. I know. We're in a state."

"One way to say it," Lucien grumbles, crossing his arms, phone in his hand.

"And I should have told you. But…I knew we needed you."

Lucien raises his eyebrows, skeptical.

"We need someone who can make something of this place. Who can do things right. I know your history. I know we need you. You've won things, you've built teams."

"I have," Lucien replies warily.

"When I played, we made the Champions League." Michael sounds weary, leaning against the wall of Lucien's office. "That wasn't very long ago, and now we're here. I know you can stop it."

Lucien fingers the slick plastic cover of his phone. He knows what it's like to have that kind of dream. He knows how hard it is to chase after something you thought you already had. "Let me think," he says, knowing that Michael has won.

* * * * *

Lucien eats, sleeps, and breathes Hertha; he sees Michael more than he sees his wife. It's Michael that brings him coffee in the morning, set up in the way that Lucien likes it. He sits with Lucien as Lucien writes his notes, identifying what needs to be worked on, what each player needs to push the limits of his ability. He ruffles his hair and makes appropriate noncommittal noises when Lucien is testing theories and needs someone to be there to hear them. He even brings him lunch.

"You should eat, too," Lucien says, looking up. There's a sandwich sitting on the table in front of him, something that he can eat one-handed while working. It's on a baguette. Lucien can't help but smile. "You're the skinny one."

"I eat." Michael laughs and sits down across the desk from Lucien. "I ate already, in fact. You should eat with the team more. Then I wouldn't have to keep coming here like this."

"And I could check what they're eating."

"You don't trust me?" Michael grins teasingly. "I keep an eye out."

"Good." Lucien smiles back and puts down his pen. "And you're right. I should. But…"

"You're busy. And that's good. Don't be sorry for working hard." Michael stands, twirling a slender plastic case in his hands. "That's what I like about you."

"My work?" There's more that Lucien wants to say, but he doesn't have the words to explain it to Michael. Something about the farms and his history.

"Here's a video for you. Dieter seems to think…" Michael shrugs. "Well."

"You don't?" Lucien has a hand on his sandwich. His stomach is growling, he'll admit to that.

"Too expensive for what we need, and untested. We can't keep throwing our money at Brazil."

Lucien smiles at him, a hint of conspiratorial accord in his eyes. "Well. I'll make my recommendations."

"Thanks, Lulu." Michael gives him a lazy salute and heads out.

There's cheese, and some kind of ham. It's perfect. Michael knows him well, even though it's been such a short period of time.

* * * * *

Michael shows up at Lucien office at night and demands, smiling, that he accompanies him. They go onto the roof and Lucien has to laugh. Michael has a bottle of wine and two glasses. He feels like he's twenty, not fifty. That was the last time he did something like this.

"I wanted you to see the city," Michael says, handing Lucien a glass.

"I see the city," Lucien replies as he takes it.

"But not like this, yeah?" Michael laughs, like it's the most natural thing in the world for two middle-aged men to be on a Berlin rooftop, staring out into the city. Maybe it is. "I want you to see it properly."

"All right, all right." Lucien holds out his glass. There's something charming about Michael. He's hard to say no to. So he sits, and looks out into the glittering city.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Michael says, sitting down himself gracefully, smiling paternally out over the city. "Berlin. It's wonderful."

"You're not from here."

"No." Michael smiles and drinks his wine, looking back at Lucien. He's barely visible in the low light, just a glimpse of his features in the streetlamps and city glow. "Düsseldorf, actually. But Berlin's been my home for over a decade."

"You don't want to go back."

"No." Michael sips at his wine. "I live here."

Lucien thinks of Switzerland. He wouldn't go back now, but he's always intended to return. "You feel settled?"

"Yeah." There's an almost childish look on Michael's face. Lucien can believe that they're boys in their twenties, talking about life and philosophy. "Really, I do, you know. There's something about Berlin. There's a beauty, a romance."

Lucien smiles. "I enjoy it here. But I don't think I'll ever be from here."

"Ah, but Lucien, that's the beauty of Berlin. That's what you have to understand. Anyone can be part of Berlin. If you let it in, love it, it will love you back." Michael smiles. "I'm not sure Dieter has ever realized that. I hope you do."

Lucien laugha lowly, topping off Michael's wineglass and then his own. "I'm just a farmer's son from Saint-Barthélemy. I do not know, if I am a part of Berlin."

"Ah, but you can be." Michael tilts his glass at Lucien to make his point. "You don't have to let your origins hold you back. It's the present that matters."

"That's Berlin?" Lucien asks with raised eyebrows.

"That's Berlin," Michael says firmly, satisfied with his announcement. "My home. You should make it yours, too."

Lucien thinks of Saint-Barthélemy, the fields. He always thought of himself as unmistakably rural. Neither Geneva or Zürich had changed him. But he smiles at Michael anyway. "I'll try."

"It'll get to you." Michael smiles. Michael always smiles, wide and easy and welcoming, and the wine just made it brighter. "Even you, my farmer."

* * * * *

Traditionally, it's supposed to be the manager on the bench, which means it should be Dieter Hoeness, but it's Michael who sits next to him at every game. He stretches out his legs and hunches over and watches the game as Lucien paces the sideline, shouting commands in his mix of languages.

There's a comfort in him being there, each game.

He thinks of how close he was to leaving, how Michael convinced him there was something worth staying for. He deserves that spot on the edge of the bench, as the team stabilizes, as Lucien sees a glimmer of the potential Michael is convinced he can tease out.

Lucien frowns at a missed pass, but catches a glimpse of Michael's grin and can't help but smile back.

* * * * *

Dieter seems reasonably pleased with tenth, or at least he's not upset. He thinks they're supposed to be better than that and Lucien knows that, but he knows what he's accomplished, getting what he first found in Berlin to this point. Dieter doesn't quite seem to get it.

Michael understands. Michael is beaming at the end of the season, clapping him on the back and tugging his sport coat. "We're going to do great things next season," he says, beaming.

Lucien smiles back. "Sure, sure," he replies, waving his hand. "We'll see."

"No, we will. If everyone…" and the pause makes it clear who Michael is talking about, "listens to you, we'll be great."

"You think too highly of me."

"What you deserve."

Lucien can't help but laugh, flattered. "Just make sure he does his job, yes?"

* * * * *

It was good to go home but it's good to return, as well. Lucien is pleasantly surprised at how eager he is to get back to his work and his team. His team, not the team. He's happy with that thought.

It's Michael who meets him at the airport again, Michael who claps him on his back and looks happy to see him. He presents him with DVDs and notes and is as eager to get back into the work of the season as Lucien is.

"Dieter has his ideas," Michael says with a laugh ad a conspiratorial grin, the one that always makes Lucien feel like he's part of something. "But, some are better than normal."

"We'll see." Lucien returns the grin.

"It's good to see you again," Michael says, slightly more serious. "I'm so used to turning around and you being there. Like I was missing a limb, or something."

"A limb with a stomach and a bad knee…"

"I've got a good feeling about this year," Michael opines. "I think we'll get what we want."

* * * * *

He finds, as the season begins, that he doesn't talk much to Dieter Hoeness. He's busy; they both are. Michael sees them both often. Michael shuttles messages between them. Lucien doesn't know how he talks with Dieter, but with himself Michael is charming, always laughing, always quick to point something out or shut up when needed. He has lost nothing of the charm Lucien imagined he must have had as player, as a captain. He has that ease still.

Dieter is a nice man in a different way, but all bluster, all bravado, dreaming he's holding the club in his iron fist. Lucien has nothing against him, but he doesn't mind not having to deal with him on a regular basis. He has work he needs to do. He doesn't need him making demands all over his office.

Michael has names for Dieter, none of them particularly flattering. Lucien shouldn't encourage him. But Michael knows how to make him laugh.

* * * * *

Dieter struts about the place as Hertha climbs the table, but Lucien all but ignores him. He's not entirely intending to, but he finds that it's easier when he does. He likes to take credits or try to make demands. Michael gives him what he needs to know and steps off, just like the kind of manager Lucien always wanted to work with.

Michael is proud but he doesn't strut. He doesn't act like they've already won things. He has a quiet sort of glow about him. It's easier to deal with the team when Michael is the one watching practice. Lucien wants them to fully know that nothing has happened yet, they haven't secured anything yet, and it's hard to do that when Dieter is acting like he's the boss of his brother's club, not his own.

But they keep rising anyway. They keep rising and they're finally in the papers, they finally have the city talking about them, they finally have that odd, cavernous stadium filled in blue. The team, his boys, are like youth-teamers instead of the journeymen so many of them are, excited and smiling like this is the first time for everything.

Dieter talks about marketing and tours and Brazil.

Michael looks at the crowd like he's recovered something he's lost.

Lucien knows that look. He saw it in a picture of himself from 1987. He didn't think that a man like Michael, with his sort of history, could know that feeling.

He has a sense there's always more to Michael than he shows even him.

* * * * *  
It's at the end of the season when things get frustrating, when the team stumbles and Lucien can't just ignore Dieter Hoeness. Now is when he needs Dieter Hoeness, needs the man to do his job, needs him to make sure he keeps the players they already have and be careful with what they buy.

"Oh, Lord," Lucien mutters to himself, rubbing his forehead. "He does know what we can do with that money, yes?"

"His scoring rate is high…" Michael says, but he doesn't sound any more convinced than Lucien is.

"I can't take this." Lucien huffs. "I don't have many demands. I just want things to be done properly."

"It wouldn't look good, would it?" Michael muses, tapping his chin.

"What?"

"Nothing." Michael regards Lucien with a long look. "This is important to you?"

"You know it is. I want to be able to see all my players. I want to make sure they'll work. I don't want to just throw money at South America, I want research." Lucien rubs his forehead again. He thinks about Hamburg. There would possibly be this sort of bullshit, but maybe not for a little while. And, at least, more options, and a misstep wouldn't be fatal. He would prefer it here, but there are limits to his patience.

"Only fair." Michael stands, taking the DVD case with him. "I'll put in a word for you."

Lucien sits back in his chair and shuts his eyes. Hamburg, Munich, Leverkusen. His agent says he has options. He doesn't think he wants them. If it was just him and Michael, this would be perfect. But it isn't, so he hasn't told anyone no.

* * * * *

Should it have surprised him? It had, whether it should have or not. Lucien hadn't expected that sort of ruthlessness out of Michael. Michael, with his grins and casual accent, his easy manner. He'd tricked everyone. The tabloids were claiming that Lucien himself had done it. They were wrong- he hadn't insisted on anything. (Swiss. Neutral.)

"We did it."

"We?"

"Well, you wanted it. Don't say you didn't." Michael pulls out a bottle of sekt with a flourish and one of his charming, easy smiles. "Celebrate with me."

Lucien wonders if Michael had been smiling like that when he told Dieter what was happening. He accepts the offered glass and tries not to look wary.

"I've been waiting for this for six years," Michael says, with no lack of satisfaction. "It's finally come together."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Michael smiles, and it's not all that different from his normal ones. Not everything has changed. "I needed to learn. I wanted everything to be perfect." He sips at his own wine. It's good, but domestic, not overly expensive. He's celebrating, but he knows there's work ahead. "And I needed someone like you."

He's been cultivating him. It's obvious now. Lucien chuckles into his glass. It's flattering, in a weird way, like the tabloids thinking he chucked Dieter Hoeness out or that Bayern Munich were trying to get him to sign. It's odd, and he's not sure it's the attention he wants, but he's flattered anyway. Michael's been winning him over for two years. He's been calculating exactly what he needs to do to be the man in charge, saying just the right things to everyone in the organization, letting Dieter say just enough to hang himself. "You are a patient man."

"One has to be." Michael shrugs nonchalantly. "But I get what I want in the end."

"The club, then?" Lucien rubs the stem of his glass. "It's yours."

"Ours," Michael corrects. "If you'll have it."

Lucien laughs again. He wasn't able to say no to Michael when things were bleak. How could he now, when everything was so bright?


End file.
